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At the end of DzPoison Root,dz the opening track on Alex Giannascoliǯs new album, Rocket, the 23-year-old artist repeats the phrase DzNow, I know everythingdz again and again, his voice seething over a clatter of banjo, violin, and acoustic guitar sounds. Itǯs difficult to ascertain the exact tone: does he really think he knows everything? Or are these incantations a form of self-assurance, covering up insecurity? The tension between ambition and self-doubt in this closing refrain istypical of Rocket’s fourteen tracks. Over musical backdrops that effortlessly jump from sound collage to country pop to dreamy folk music, the cast of characters that Alex G inhabits have fun, fall in love, develop obsessions, get into trouble, and burn out. Rocket illustrates a cohesive vision of contemporary experience thatǯs dark and foreboding, perhaps especially because of how familiar, or to use Alexǯs word, Dzunassuming,dz the settings are. With a goat-adorned cover painted by Alexǯs sister, Rachel, Rocket is the Philadelphia-based artistǯs eighth full-length release—an assured statement that follows a slate of humble masterpieces, many of them self-recorded and self-released, stretching from 2010ǯs RACE to his 2015 Domino debut, Beach Music. Rocketǯs sessions began shortly after Beach Musicǯs ended, with Alex tracking songs at home, by himself and with friends, in the gaps between a hectic 2015 and 2016 touring schedule. Both albums were mixed by Jacob Portrait (Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Bass Drum of Death), who lent them a fine-tuning that retains the homespun personality of earlier efforts. Amid the process, in the fall of 2016, Alex made headlines for reasons outside his own releases. He had caught the attention of Frank Ocean, who asked him to play guitar on his two 2016 albums, Endless and Blonde. More than any stylistic cues, what Alex took from the experience was a newfound confidence in collaboration. DzI always have a hard time letting people play on my stuff,dz he says, Dzbut I saw how comfortable [Ocean] was using other peopleǯs playing.dz Alexǯs previous albums are largely solo affairs, but Rocket wears this collaborative spirit proudly. Touring band members Samuel Acchione and John Heywood contribute guitar and bass, both soloing on DzCountydz; Samuelǯs brother Colin plays bass on two songs as well. Emily Yacina, a more frequent collaborator, sings on DzBobbydz and DzAlina,dz and Molly Germer shows up throughout the album on violin and vocals. Germerǯs violin was a game-changer, as the instrument Dzadded a texture that I canǯt get on my own,dz Alex notes. The looser, collaborative approach helped cultivate the variety of musical styles that Rocket presents. The dense, folky cluster of DzPoison Rootdz leads to the bouncing country-rock of DzProud,dz which is followed by the sophisticated harmonies of jazz-pop tune DzCounty.dz Later, the freaky, frantic DzWitchdz unsettles the albumǯs pop sensibility, while instrumentals DzHorsedz and DzRocketdz set a more placid mood—that is, until the distorted, beat-driven DzBrickdz destroys any feelings of serenity exuded by the surrounding songs. Rocket ends with a rollicking free-for-all, DzGuilty,dz that in
its numerous contributors and blaring saxophone synthesizes the albumǯs communal feel and restless sense of musical experimentation. In addition to its fluid network of musical styles, Rocket showcases Alexǯs ability to project the perspectives of several characters while maintaining a strong personal voice. Whereas Beach Musicǯs lyrics outlined vague situations, with Rocket Alex was Dztrying to create narratives that anybody could still inhabit,dz he says, Dzbut that had a more concrete quality.dz He takes on the voice of memorable personalities such as what seems like an over-confident boy (DzPowerful Mandz), an alienated schoolgirl (DzAlinadz), and a couple with a creepily ambivalent relationship (DzBobbydz). Their stories are at turns heartbreaking, puzzling, and hilarious; yet no matter the setting or the way he manipulates his voice, you always get an ineffable sense ofDz(Sandy) Alex Gdz as well as what he refers to as Dzan American perspective.dzDzProud,dz the albumǯs longest (and perhaps catchiest) track, depicts a guarded, potentially disingenuous conversation. DzIǯm so proud of you,dz the narrator says. But later, their sincerity falls away: DzI wanna be a fake like you...,dz they add. DzI just wanna play the game.dz The chorus strikes an earnest note—that the person singing works not to play Dzthe gamedz but to provide for their Dzbaby.dz Yet Alex makes sure that itǯs never perfectly clear whoǯs talking, or who believes what, casting doubt over an otherwise personable, inviting song. Track eight, DzSportstar,dz traces another uncertain—though, in this case, one-sided—dialogue. Here, the narrator is an obsessive fan of the titular Dzsportstardz who, with pitched-up vocals and atop a melancholic piano lead, recites stalker-like requests that range from benign (DzLet me tie your Nikesdz) to violently sexual (DzCould you hit me too harddz). That the Dzsportstardz remains anonymous speaks to Rocketǯs open-endedness. Even if the stories are grounded in specific ideas and real experiences, Alex paints pictures that leave room for listeners to share in the events—to interpret them however theyǯd like, without regard for a Dzrightdz answer. DzI want [Rocket] to be completely unassuming,dz Alex says. DzI wanted it to be full of these characters that donǯt know how crazy they are.dzRocket doesnǯt have a pointed theme so much as these general feelings of unsteadiness and incomprehension—feelings we remember from growing up and that creep into the everyday life of adulthood as well. In some ways, the albumǯs title encapsulates this sense: DzI like the word Ǯrocketǯbecause it sounds immature, attention-seeking,dz Alex explains. But while rockets certainly make a big impression, they also burn out. On Rocket, the myopic characters teeter between the initial explosion and the ultimate burning out. Alex himself, though, in a collection of songs thatǯs both his tightest and most adventurous, is poised only for the ascent.

Nandi Rose Plunkett writes, records and performs under the name Half Waif. Her music embodies her pensive nature and her
lifelong endeavor to reconcile a sense of place. Raised in Williamstown, Massachusetts, Nandi was the daughter of an Indian refugee
mother and an American father of Irish/Swiss descent. Growing up she listened to everything from Joni Mitchell and Tori Amos, to Celtic
songstress Loreena McKennitt and traditional Indian bhajans. In college she studied classical singing and became engrossed with the works
of Olivier Messiaen and Claude Debussy. Her output as Half Waif reflects these varying influences, resulting in a richly layered collage of
blinking electronic soundscapes, echoes of Celtic melodies and the elegiac chord changes of 19th-century art music.
Half Waif has self-released two EPs and two albums – including 2016’s Probable Depths, which caught the attention of the worldwide
music media, with NPR singling out track ‘Turn Me Around’ and Pitchfork awarding it their coveted Best New Track distinction. In 2017,
Half Waif joined the Cascine family to release her form/a EP – a collection of tracks that expanded on her exploration of placemaking and
home, and that earned her acclaim from a wide range of culture critics. In the same year, Cascine reissued Probable Depths, giving the
album its first ever vinyl pressing. Half Waif also spent 2017 on near constant tour, supporting artists such as Julien Baker, Iron & Wine,
Land Of Talk and Mitski. This year, Half Waif will release her latest body of work: a new album titled Lavender, due for spring release on
Cascine. Nandi shared the following on the album:
Lavender is so named for my grandmother Asha – a nod to the lavender she would pluck from her garden and boil in a
pot on the stove. The first time I noticed her doing this, it struck me as a kind of magic: the small black cauldron
bubbling with a piece of the earth. She did it to make the house smell good. I believe it was also a ritual of purification,
clearing out any shadows that may have tried to creep into the old English home she’d lived in, alone, for fifty years.
When I wrote and recorded Lavender, my grandmother was alive, and though she wasn’t ill at the time of her sudden
death in September, it was obvious her life – after 95 years – was drawing to a close. As a result, themes of aging and
collapse are all over this album. It is an elegy to time, the pilgrimages we take, and the ultimate slow plod towards our
end. It is an examination of the way we fracture, inside ourselves and inside our relationships – the fissures that creep
along the structures we build, the tendency towards disintegration.
We face many endings in our lives, on the path toward that unfathomable yet omnipresent ultimate Ending. Break-ups
and divorces, marriages and the estrangement of the self, hard times and bittersweet relief, steep precipices that rise up
beyond our control over and over again. These endings are markers of time and growth, small personal apocalypses that
pockmark our days. And yet there is more to come when the terror subsides; even the night itself – that great darkness –
must end and give way to new light. Lavender is a talisman to hold in the midst of that uncertainty, to heal and remind
ourselves that it’s not over. It’s not ending yet